


The Lines of Battle Drawn

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Actor RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: AU, Historical, Multi, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-10
Updated: 2008-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I really wanted to do something big for the "peace" prompt of <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/14_valentines/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/14_valentines/"><b>14_valentines</b></a> like I did last year, but this epic project got away from me and so turned into something much less epic.  It's basically a series of ficlets about war, and I may adjust a little in the future and lengthen the parts for re-posting.  Consider it a possible work in progress, but I'd love to hear what you think so far.  Also, a note on historical method – this is fanfiction.  It's true that I didn't do much balancing in terms of which wars I chose and when they are, but I picked some that I wanted to write about and it ended up getting a bit of a late 20th-century edge.  Ah well.  It happens.  You can read the essay on peace <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/14valentines/104974.html">here</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lines of Battle Drawn

_And the war came with a curse and a caterwaul.   
Yeah the war came, with all the poise of a cannonball.  
And they're picking out our eyes by cold and candlelight.  
When the war came, the war came hard._

These stories are not meant to scare you, or to inspire you. These stories are meant to make you think.

Seventeen men and two women, all subjected to the consequences, contingencies, and even the silver linings of nine very different wars. But really, how "different" can their experiences be? If the boundaries of space and time were erased, these men and women would all feel a connection to each other. Perhaps not profound, perhaps not enduring, but a connection.

These are the stories of brothers and sisters—in arms, and in peace.

 

_Western wind, when will thou blow,  
The small rain down can rain?  
Christ, if my love were in my arms  
And I in my bed again!_

I. _1208 B.C.E. _

The wind was harsh as they sailed through the eastern Mediterranean, a tight clump of well-constructed ships built for war. Young men waited in strict formation on the deck, armed to the teeth and clothed as was appropriate for a fortnight on the water. The Egyptian sun, however, was like a furnace, and the wind abruptly died as they neared Pharaoh's forces.

Merneptah.

The name sounded nothing but foreign to Craig, one of many among the ranks of this loose confederation, men from even more loosely defined states who came now to attempt the wresting of control over precious trade routes from Egyptians. Like most of the men, Craig knew nothing of Egypt. It was only a name. His thoughts were focused much more plainly on a man a little ahead and to his right, a man who stood proudly but still retained his youth in his features.

The man's hair was shocking, pale fire, and his armour was not quite small enough for his frame, obviously designed for a larger man. He shifted at intervals, trying to find a more comfortable position, and Craig smiled.

There was no privacy on this ship, but he had seen the youth looking at him occasionally, looks that had in the past led to physical encounters with men from his homeland. The young man was anything but overt, however, and Craig was intrigued. Who was this man? Where did he come from, and what were the customs there? Was that his excuse?

There was no time to talk, and if there had been, Craig would not have known what to say. The tension in the air rose, and more than once he caught the young man's eye, a sort of silent acknowledgement of the death that was about to transpire. It wasn't a question, here on the front lines, sailing to a faraway land for some uncertain benefit to other men. Craig had no family, no importance in the alliances between city-states. He was going to die, and he was afraid.

For weeks, the waves had been a prison, the lack of visible land daunting even for someone who had lived his whole life in the coastlands. But when they left the ship, Craig found himself craving the water, its solitude and safety, the calm before the storm when he could gaze into the eyes of a stranger and feel some sense of fraternity, some humane connection to another man.

The desert was hot, and they didn't have to go far inland to reach it. The Pharoah's soldiers lured them in, and when they struck, they were effective. The stench of blood combined with the smell of urine and faeces – an inescapable talisman of human fear – and the sun beat down on the troops of both sides, thirst rising quick in their throats and making a concentrated effort difficult in the battle. When it was over, Craig searched the living, and then the carnage, until he found him.

The worst thing was, the man was not dead.

Craig pulled the strange boy into his arms, his head cradled in Craig's lap. His lips were dry and cracked and he was bleeding profusely from a gaping wound. It didn't take medical knowledge to be certain that he would not live.

"What is your name?" Craig asked, quietly, though his voice sounded too loud in the still of the desert.

"David," the voice croaked out. "My wife… please…"

He looked so young to have a wife or children, but Craig nodded, making a fool's promise just to see the young man die with a smile on his face. "If I make it home alive, I will tell her."

"Thank you," the youth whispered, and several agonizing moments later, he was still.

It felt like an unspeakable cruelty, to lay the fragile young head down on the bone dry earth, to walk away and join the camp of regrouping men. It felt like a betrayal, simply to be alive. The earth was hot and dry, and Craig wanted to go home.

 

_The man who's blest with comfort does not know  
What some then suffer who most widely travel  
The paths of exile. Even now my heart  
Journeys beyond its confines, and my thoughts  
Over the sea, across the whale's domain  
Travel afar the regions of the earth,  
And then come back to me with greed and longing.  
Because the joys of God mean more to me   
Than this dead transitory life on land. _

The great old days have gone, and all the grandeur   
Of earth; there are not Caesars now or kings  
Or patrons such as once there used to be,  
Amongst whom were performed most glorious deeds,  
Who lived in lordliest renown. Gone now   
Is all that host, the splendours have departed.

II. _1301 C.E._

The country here made Dominic very nervous, but he had no homeland now, and he had nothing left but to chase a dream. Even leaves crackling underneath his boots made him jittery at first, but the further from England he travelled, the more complacent he grew. He was running out of food, and wasn't much of a huntsmen, but he did not worry much. He hardly feared death.

Or so he thought.

"Give me one reason why I shoul'nt kel yeh, Sassenach."

Dominic stared down the length of the blade whose tip was aimed at his throat and blinked, his wits coming to him slowly through a fog of confusion and rising fear.

"I… I am not a subject of England, Sir."

The small, wiry man laughed and shook his head. "Tha's one of the be'er ones I've heard, I'll give yeh that."

"No, I…" Dom cleared his throat, realising now that only his story could save him. "I'm telling the truth. The King exiled me. You can find out yourself if you want. My name's Monaghan."

The man's eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head to the side. "An' how do yeh suggest I 'find out?'"

"I…" Dom lowered his eyes, defeated. "I don't know."

"Mm hmm." The man watched him for a moment, obviously unimpressed. "Where are yeh going?"

"North."

"Well I could see _that._ Why?"

"My mother," Dominic said, swallowing hard even though it had been three years since her death. "She told me…" He swallowed again, realising that his reason would sound foolish to anyone who'd had the sense to grow up since his mother told him fairytales. Dominic never was the cleverest child.

"Yes?"

"That God lives in the North," he said quietly, staring at the ground.

"Yeh mean to tell me, Sassenach, that y'ere forsaking kin and country to go chasing after _God_?"

Dominic shrugged. "I have no kin. I have no country. What else is there, but God?"

The man frowned and lowered his sword. "Come closer."

Dominic looked at him suspiciously, and the stranger grunted in frustration. "I want to make sure y'aren't armed, Sassenach. Come _here._"

Dominic sighed and stepped forward, allowed the man with his small hands to pat him down, checking his leather bag and his person for weapons.

"Don't yeh ken there's a war on?" the man asked when he'd finished.

"Of course."

"And yet you go in the direction that th'armies go, even though y'aren't one of them?"

"I know it sounds foolish," Dominic said quietly. "I've always been foolish, though."

The man sighed and turned on his heel. "Come with me."

"What? Where?"

"To my _home_, lad. Even in wartime the Scottish show hospitality. I won't have you thinking us a pack of brutes, now. Come."

Dominic smiled and followed. It was a cold world, and he still wasn't sure whether God lived in the North, or whether God lived anywhere, now. But at least, for a moment, he was not alone.

 

_Let the bird of loudest lay,  
On the sole Arabian tree,  
Herald sad and trumpet be,  
To whose sound chaste wings obey._

But thou shrieking harbinger,   
Foul precurrer of the fiend,  
Augur of the fever's end,  
To this troop come thou not near!

III. _1453 C.E._

For weeks, the city had been nothing but confusion and a dull sort of calm before the storm, the waiting that always accompanied a siege. Of course, Sean couldn't know of this, for he was no scholar of history, no learned man. He was a warrior first and last, and he was prepared to die. There weren't enough men, after all, to defend the city properly, and the rumours of the size of Mehmed's army were enough to make even a strong man quiver in fear. And then there was the eclipse of the moon, and the fog, and the mysterious lights that some took to signal the departure of the Holy Spirit from the Hagia Sophia. Sean was not invited to the final service, for he was no nobleman, and he waited with a heavy heart for the troops to descend upon them.

At first, there was an almost-hope as the soldiers that were sent in initially seemed poorly trained and unable to do much against the city's defences. Sean was glad for the pause in the rumble of cannonfire against the walls as Mehmed sent his men in, and he killed twelve men in the first three nights. It was a sense of humanity that forced him to keep a count, and also a sense of pride – each time he counted, the ratio of Turks killed to his own inevitable death mounted.

The fatal blow came in a lull, in an area he did not expect, in a pause in the battle. He was dining under an olive tree when the man struck, a stab in the back. The pain was unbearable, but he gritted his teeth and bore it. Death would come before long.

The eyes he met as he held his stomach and waited patiently were not Christian, but the boy-soldier did not advance on him as expected, did not finish him off as he almost hoped.

"I will not let them come to you," the boy whispered in Greek, and Sean looked at him with increasing confusion. "It was wrong, how he did it. I saw."

"It…" Sean choked, coughing up blood. "It is war."

The boy shook his head. "I do not wish that the history books see us all as usurpers. My name is Orlando. I will help you to die in peace."

Sean tried to reply, but he couldn't. The boy cradled Sean's head in his lap, and the sounds of battle faded as a fog set in, thicker than the one before. The boy sang a strange song, perhaps a Turkish lullaby, his voice haunting and soft, and his hand stroked Sean's hair as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

 

_We have had too much consecration,  
too little affirmation,_

too much: but this, this, this  
has been proved heretical,

too little: I know, I feel  
the meaning that words hide;

they are anagrams, cryptograms,  
little boxes, conditioned

to hatch butterflies…

IV. _1863 C.E._

Truth be told, Harry had never wanted to fight. He didn't like the country's policy, he didn't like combat with natives whose land wasn't England's to take, anyway… he didn't like any of it. But when he deserted, he quickly realised there was no place for a recently-declared civilian Englishman in a place like this. He felt like a bandit, sneaking about with no idea how to tell the Maori people in their own language that he was not part of the fight, that he had thrown down his gun back at the coastline and was unarmed.

For three nights, Harry had found a safe place to sleep that seemed uninhabited, a hill far from any settlements, and so it was with a certain amount of shock that he woke to a knife at his throat on the fourth morning.

"Please," he whispered. "I'm not… shite… I don't…"

The man's eyes were large and brown and unimpressed. Harry frowned and tried to sign, holding up his hands and hoping that surrender was universal here as well. The man seemed to understand, but still he patted Harry's person down, searching his bag and the surrounding area for a weapon. When he was satisfied, he gave Harry a look of curiosity. Harry frowned and pointed in the direction of the nearest English camp.

"Those men," he explained, pointing and then miming men walking on his palm. "Bad," he said, making a disgusted face. The man frowned and then burst out laughing, nodding and slapping his palm on his thigh. Harry grinned, safe for now, and breathed a sigh of relief, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"Harry," he said, pointing at himself. "Sinclair. Your name?" He pointed at the other man, and he smiled.

"Makaore."

Harry nodded, not sure whether that was first or last or whether the Maori _had_ first or last names. As he was pondering that, he realised that the man – Makaore – was making signs, holding one hand to his mouth and miming chewing, then pointing at Harry and giving him a questioning look, saying something in his own language.

Harry shook his head and gestured to his empty bag. The man smiled and nodded, then beckoned with his hand, pointing in the direction of the sea. Harry smiled and shouldered his bag, wiping the dirt from his hands on his trousers. It was a start, at least, and a start was better than nothing.

 

_Say, is there Beauty yet to find?  
And Certainty? and Quiet kind?  
Deep meadows yet, for to forget  
The lies, and truths, and pain? . . . Oh! yet  
Stands the Church clock at ten to three?  
And is there honey still for tea?_

V. _1945 C.E._

Had they lived in Germany, they would have worn badges on their chests. He a yellow star, they pink triangles. Had they lived in Germany, it would have been different. And yet, it was hard to ignore the changes in routine, the little things that made them wonder when the Armistice came if it would ever really be the same.

If it weren't for the war, after all, they never would have found Elijah in the first place. "He is beautiful," Alan whispered as they lay in their bed the first night, Ian having snuck in after the boy went to sleep.

"Yes, but don't think about that," Ian rebutted him, smoothing two fingers over a wrinkled cheek. The child – for to him he was a child despite his twenty years, having been born in this century, having never really known peace – came from London, one of the refugees. They were lucky, with their small house in the North and only a single boy living with them, not one of the families with twenty people coming up to stay. They lived too far from the main routes, tucked away in their false sense of security. But still, things were not as they were.

It started with the boy. When he discovered them one morning, when he rose too early and saw Ian slipping from Alan's bedroom, he exchanged a secret for a secret and showed Ian his Torah. It wasn't only the Germans who didn't like the Jews these days, but Ian had no opinion.

In the year that passed between Elijah's coming to them and the news of victory on their transistor radio, understanding grew and blossomed in the spaces between.

"I don't mind," Elijah said quietly one night, coming into the kitchen for a last cup of tea and catching them in an embrace. "I did, before…" He blushed and looked slightly ashamed. "Well the rabbis say… but it doesn't matter. There are no rabbis here."

Ian nodded and smiled, his hand returning to Alan's waist. "Thank you, dear."

"You are as good as fathers to me, and I don't care what they say. The rabbis or your priests."

Alan snorted. "They aren't _my_ priests."

Elijah laughed, quietly, and put the kettle on. "Still. They're wrong."

Alan nodded and offered Elijah a biscuit from a near-empty tin, the last from their ration. "Will you stay in England, if the war ends?" _If it ends with the right winners_ didn't need to be said. None of them would have a choice if the Nazis had their say.

"I think so," Elijah agreed. "But I have nowhere to go, really."

Ian smiled, exchanged a look with Alan, and nodded. "You are always welcome in this house."

Elijah stepped forward and kissed each of their cheeks gently, as you might a grandfather's. He took his tea upstairs to bed, and they went back to their good-night kisses.

And so then, when the news came three years later, when Elijah went to work in a factory and fell victim to an accident, Ian and Alan mourned as if they had lost a child. Peace had come, but still the war had changed a lot of things.

 

_Where is the horse gone? Where the rider?  
Where the giver of treasure?  
Where are the seats at the feast?  
Where are the revels in the hall?  
Alas for the bright cup!  
Alas for the mailed warrior!  
Alas for the splendour of the prince!  
How that time has passed away,  
dark under the cover of night,  
as if it had never been!_

VII. _1963 C.E._

"I want you to understand the significance of this system. Remember, the Middle Ages came before the state system, which emerged in 1648 with the peace of Westphalia. They didn't have concepts of nationality and sovereignty. All politics was essentially local, and the principle concepts were family, loyalty, group membership, and religion. To these, of course, honour and glory neatly latched on."

"Excuse me," a frail girl sitting near the back of the classroom spoke up.

"Yes, Nava?"

"Excuse me, sir, but I don't understand the difference. How do these values differ from what we privilege in modern Israel?"

Karl smiled and leaned back against the front of the lectern. "Explain what you mean, Nava."

"Well…" she began, tentatively. "All politics was local, you say. This is true for the Jewish people. We have always been a small tribe, at times transient, now housed again in our Holy Land, baruch hashem. But family, honour, glory… these things have always been important to us as well. And of course religion."

"And what of the relationship between this loyalty and conflict? Do you think glory manifests itself in the same way now, in conventional warfare?"

A stocky young man in the front row shook his head vigorously. "Pardon me, teacher, but I do not think you understand."

"No?" Karl grinned. "Enlighten me."

"You are not Israeli."

"No," he agreed.

"And we have a state now, but I do not think our nationalism or sovereignty operate in the same ways as that of other nations. We must live on the defensive, and glory comes in different ways. It isn't all black and white, do you see? When we do have to fight, we will fight, but it is not so simple as the newspapers would have you believe. Yes, we are a small Jewish state in Palestine, surrounded by hostile neighbours, but it is not only Arab and Israeli, Jew and Muslim. I think it is different than this."

"How so?"

"We might draw a parallel to the concept of family in the Middle Ages, if not to the feudal system itself. If someone kills my brother, I have no choice but to seek him out. It is a sense of loyalty and dignity, and vengeance. But it is not as simple as you would have us believe. You ask us to transcend this, but I am not certain you understand it. Have you ever seen a brother die?"

Karl bit his lip. "No."

"Then with all due respect, sir, I fear you are missing the point."

\---

It was the sixth day of October, when Avraham was killed. The bright, stocky boy from the front row found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, in the midst of a skirmish. He had gone to visit his brother, who was one of the soldiers holding the ceasefire line in the Sinai, because the twenty year old soldier, only three years older than Avraham, ought to be able to break the fast with family. Karl did not think it was fair, and the war violated not only the rules of warfare but in his mind, the dignity of the Jewish people, a basic sense of right and wrong. He had never had a problem with Muslims before, or Arabs. He was not sure that he did now. But they killed on a holy day, and Avraham was just a boy.

Of course, he could never know who had done it, but Avraham no longer had a brother, and though Karl did not see him die, he felt the loss acutely. He found out from a friend and let out a scream of rage, a sound that echoed through the streets that afternoon, three days after it happened.

It was many years later when Karl found himself on his own front line, fighting in a battle without demarcation or uniforms. He crouched on a rooftop, his hair covered by a black yarmulke, and he whispered familiar lines as he found the enemy through his rifle's sight.

"Better is it for each one of us that he should avenge his friend, than greatly mourn."

Karl said a prayer in Hebrew, and then he depressed the trigger.

 

_Come gather round people wherever you roam,  
Admit that the waters around you have grown,  
Accept it or soon you'll be drenched to the bone.  
The battle is outside raging.  
So you'd better start swimming, or you'll sink like a stone.  
These times, they are a changin'._

VIII. _1969 C.E._

"You've got Marianne at eleven, business lunch with the board at noon, then a two 'o clock…"

"Oh, wait," Viggo interrupted his assistant. "You need to clear my afternoon. There's a war protest."

"Another one? Sir, I'm afraid Maggie really wanted to see you, and she hasn't got much time this month…"

"Tell her I'll have dinner with her. This is important, Andy. I need to show my support."

"Sir, you've shown your support three times this month," Andy insisted, tapping his little notebook on his hip. "I admire your idealism, really, I do, but…"

Viggo smiled gently and gestured to one of the big, comfy chairs he reserved for guests to his office. His own chair was straight-backed and simple, but he claimed it was better for his back.

Frowning, as he really did have a lot to do today, Andy sat.

"Tell me something. Are you in favour of the war?"

Andy shrugged. "It doesn't much matter, does it? To me, I mean. It's not my country's war."

"You must have an opinion, though."

Andy shrugged again and thought about it, briefly. "I suppose you might as well get out while you can. When the natives start getting restless, it's always a bad sign."

Viggo laughed lightly. "Everyone's in this, you know. Doesn't matter whether you're an American or not, you live in New York, and this is going to get huge, I promise you. For or against, you should at least think about it. And if you do decide you're against it, I can get you an extra sign."

"I'll think about it, Sir."

"That's the spirit, Andrew. Now what am I doing this weekend?"

 

_"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,   
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,   
To the last syllable of recorded time;   
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools   
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!   
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,   
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,   
And then is heard no more: it is a tale   
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,   
Signifying nothing."_

IX. _1990 C.E._.

"Interview, Eric Bana, eleven March." Marton's tone was professional, the small recorder on the table between them pointing at the wall to their right.

"Where were you born?" Eric asked, throwing Marton off before he could ask his first question. He recovered quickly, though, not letting the big man with the warm brown eyes faze him with something so trivial as a slightly harsh tone of voice.

"In a suburb outside of Budapest."

Eric nodded.

"And you?"

"Here in Zagreb."

"Your parents are Croatian?"

"My father. My mother is East German."

"Thank you for agreeing to speak with me."

"I didn't do it for you. I want someone to hear another point of view. No one will really listen, but we may as well keep trying."

Marton frowned. "You don't think so? It is a new age, the Cold War alliances are crumbling…"

"And bringing with them new fears. So it goes, always and always until the end of time."

"What makes you feel this way?"

"My mother was born in East Germany," he repeated. "How optimistic do you think I can be?"

"And your father?"

"My father is not a nationalist. He is a simple man, who is reasonably frightened by the acts of the Serbians. They think we are all Nazi collaborators, that we are bad people, but that is ridiculous. My mother did not collaborate with the Nazis, nor did my father. The war was complicated."

Marton nodded. "My father died in a Soviet prison," he said quietly.

"I am sorry."

"No," Marton said, shaking his head and getting back into his interview frame of mind. "Don't worry about it."

"If I might pry – why are you so optimistic, with such a past?"

Marton shrugged. "There is no more Soviet Union. There is freedom – of the press…"

"The same people still live in Russia, though. Don't believe everything they say about freedom, Mr. Csokas. You will not always find it accurate in life."

"Marton," he said, meeting Eric's eyes and hitting the "stop" button on his recorder. "It's Marton."

Eric nodded.

"Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

Eric smiled and nodded again. "Do you believe that you can change the world with cups of coffee, Marton?"

Marton frowned. "I didn't mean –"

"I do," Eric said simply. "I think it is the only way that might remain."

Marton smiled and went to the counter to wait.

 

_It was a slow day, and the sun was beating on the soldiers by the side of the road.  
There was a bright light, a shattering of shop windows;  
The bomb in the baby carriage was wired to the radio.  
These are the days of miracle and wonder, this is the long distance call.  
The way the camera follows us in slow mo, the way we look to us all._

IX. _2006 C.E._

They sent in aid workers a week after the ceasefire, as soon as it was deemed safe. The situation was grim, and though Miranda had been to Beirut once before, and her mother before her in the 70s, when new-wave feminism combined with a penchant for human rights to take Mrs. Otto away from Miranda's father to set up a base in Geneva, it still shocked her.

Miranda sometimes wondered if she wasn't cut out for this, this legacy of humanitarian work in which she had been so simply thrust. She believed in the mission, how could she not with the things she had seen, but some of it was so gruesome, so painful. Sights such as these galvanized her mother, threw her into new projects and more crusades, but they only made Miranda tired. She had nightmares, and a weekly appointment with a therapist when she was at home. The pills only fucked with her hormones, made her moods swing more violently. Her smile as a coworker handed her a clipboard was weak.

"Excuse me. I'm here to help – any idea whom I might talk to?"

Miranda turned at the unfamiliar voice and looked up into the eyes of a woman as blonde as herself, her accent just as Australian, though it had a gauze of London overlaying the vowels. She wore a long skirt and a headscarf, but the tendrils of hair poking out at her forehead gave her away, as did the pale skin and clear blue eyes.

"You're not with us?"

The woman shook her head. "No. I live here."

"You do?" Miranda was surprised – not many Australian or English women wandering around Beirut these days. "Is your…erm… is your husband Lebanese?"

The woman smiled kindly. "No."

"Are you a doctor, or…"

"No. I just live here."

"Oh. Right. You've been here how long?"

"Seven years."

"Do you speak Arabic?"

The woman laughed and nodded. "In the local dialect, even, which is more than can be said for most of your unit, I'd assume?"

Miranda blushed and then was angry at herself for doing so. Who _was_ this woman? "And French?" she asked, a bit more brusquely.

"Yes, and Armenian. You've brought doctors? I can help you find people who need help."

Miranda thought about what her mother once told her – never reject an ally, no matter who they are – and nodded. "Thank you. I… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be sharp. I'm a little jet lagged."

The woman smiled and extended her hand. "No worries. My name is Cate. Are you from Sydney?"

"Melbourne, but only as a child. Geneva, since then. I'm Miranda."

"All right, Miranda. Could you come to my flat this afternoon? At three, say? Don't worry, you'll be safe alone in daylight. Everyone knows the UN is here, they won't be stupid. I can give you some information that will help."

Miranda nodded cautiously. "All right. Three."

\---

"Please, come in," Cate greeted Miranda when she knocked tentatively on the front door of the flat, stepping aside and gesturing her inside. The flat was small but cosy, with both western and regional art on the walls, a big overstuffed sofa in the centre of the living room, and a coffee table spread to bursting with food.

"Just a little mezze," Cate explained with a blush, bustling off to the kitchenette. "Tea? My mother sent some Tim Tams as well, if you like."

Miranda watched her back, blinking. Cate wore the same skirt and colourful shawl, but her hair was exposed, pulled back into a bun with several strands falling out. The messy look suited her, and Miranda felt somewhat at home as she took her shoes off and sat on the sofa, pulling her feet up under her. "Tea would be lovely," she called back to Cate. "This is plenty of food, though. Amazing, really. Where do you get it all?"

"The market," Cate replied as she returned with cups and saucers. There was nowhere for them to go, so both women balanced their tea in their laps as they nibbled at pita triangles spread with hummus and baba ganoush.

"Did you live in Sydney?" Miranda asked, remembering Cate's question from earlier.

"Only until I was eighteen. London, then."

"Ah." Miranda smiled. "I thought so."

Cate laughed and sipped at her tea. "I give myself away."

"Why do you stay?" Miranda asked curiously.

Cate shrugged. "Why not?"

"The violence…"

"Ah, but why the old argument?" Cate countered. "After buildings fell in New York, I thought people would realize. Nowhere can be safe all the time. People die from all sorts of things. Drinking too much, driving a car, having a book fall on their head from a high shelf."

Miranda giggled in spite of herself, and then forced herself to sober up. "It's just… I've seen a lot of things. Hard places. In Africa, and Asia… it's all so depressing, I can't imagine not having a refuge, you know? Some sort of place to which you can retreat when it gets to be too much."

Cate smiled and made an expansive gesture with her hand. "Here it is."

"But you aren't afraid of… shells and things?"

Cate shrugged. "You hear the bombs. Shots, sometimes. I'm not afraid of death."

Miranda frowned. "I'm terrified of it," she admitted quietly. Cate nodded and took her teacup from her, set it on the floor next to her own and took both of Miranda's hands.

"You're alive now," she said, meeting Miranda's eyes. Miranda inhaled slowly, the aromas of the tea and the food and Cate's subtle perfume – sandalwood? – mixing and making her head spin. She closed her eyes briefly, and then opened them again on Cate's soft smile.

"Thank you," she whispered, embarrassed. "I think I needed the reminder."

Cate smiled and held a cube of soft cheese to Miranda's lips, still holding one of her hands between their knees. "Any time."

 

_The guns spell money's ultimate reason  
In letters of lead on the Spring hillside.  
But the boy lying dead under the olive trees  
Was too young and too silly  
To have been notable to their important eye.  
He was a better target for a kiss._

X. _2008 C.E._

"Look, Daddy! Isn't the boy pretty?" Allie exclaimed, tugging her father by his hand to the glass-encased photo of a young man, smiling at the camera, his school satchel over one shoulder and a star-shaped patch on his chest. "Jude," it read, and Sean hissed through his teeth as he read the plaque below the photograph, nodding numbly at her daughter's question.

_Safran Wallenstein, pictured age 16, lived two more years before he was deported with his family to Birkenau. He was survived by his wife Sophia, who gave birth to one son, Jonathon, in the camp, and a second, Avraham, in Israel after being liberated and remarrying. Photograph courtesy of Sophia Rabin._

"Daddy?" Allie asked. "Can we go to the potty? I need to go potty."

"All right, honey. Let's just go find your mom, okay?"

Allie nodded and went careening around the corner and Sean followed at a more sedate pace, watching the people as they moved through the exhibit, reverently, some almost like zombies, others quietly weeping. An old woman moved with the help of a walker, mascara smeared, and Sean pushed the button for her at the lift.

Perhaps his daughter was too young for history like this. Perhaps.

_may the wrist turn in the wind like a wing   
the severed foot tread home ground_

the punctured ear hear the thrum of sunbirds   
the molten eye see stars in the dark

the faltering lungs quicken windmills   
the maimed hand scatter seeds and grain

the heart flood underground springs   
pound maize, recognize named cattle

and may the unfixable broken bone   
loosened from its hinges

now lying like a wishbone in the veld   
pitted by pointillist ants

give us new bearings.


End file.
